Safe at last

She said goodbye to her colleagues.She wrapped herself in her warmest coat, wound a cosy scarf around her neck then headed off into the wrath of a winter’s night. She pressed her brolly into the freezing wind and screwed up her eyes as the driving sleet assaulted her cheeks with a thousand icy needles. A passing car splashed through a puddle sending a shower of glacial spray into her face. She walked past traffic lights, red amber green, red amber green; they hurt her eyes. A frustrated driver honked his horn, and her heart missed a beat. Noise rain, sleet, water, light, dazzling light. If she wasn’t awake it would be a nightmare. It was a waking nightmare.

.

Two more corners and her home would be in sight. One more corner and the street light that stood outside her window would glow like a beacon, welcoming her home.  A few more steps and she’d be safe. Safe from the hostile world outside..

The door closed behind her with a comforting clonk. For a moment or two she stood in the hallway and closed her eyes. It was warm. It smelt good. It was quiet, the silence sounded good.

.

Soon she was sitting in her favourite chair. A log hissed and crackled in the hearth, and the flames which embraced it sent an orange glow into the room. Her shadows danced around the walls like lifelong best  friends. She drew up her legs beneath her and hugged her favourite cushion.

.

Two worlds. One beyond the curtains, hostile harsh and frightening. One within, secure, snug and cosseting. Safe.

.

.

Written for Sunday Scribblings prompt, Safe  

  

Rosey sees a ghost!

This weeks word on Writers Island is Illusion. Rosey recently fell foul of a couple of them!

Rosey and I recently went down to Dorset to visit our friends Chas and his girlfriend Charley. Before they met each other, Chas was always known as Charlie. So when they got together one of them was going to have to take on new name! Chas hated his real name Charles, and Charlotte detested the name her parents had bestowed on her. A toss of a coin was deemed the fairest way to determine which one of them was to hang on to their name, and I had been asked to officiate over the proceedings. Hence our trip to their cottage in the West Country.

The cottage was so sweet; small, whitewashed and criss-crossed with ancient black beams. After we’d settled ourselves into our little rooms upstairs, we went down to join our friends for a glass of champagne in front of an inglenook fireplace. I knew it would only be a matter of time before Rosey asked if the cottage was haunted! After being told that three hundred years ago an old lady had died under mysterious circumstances in Rosey’s bedroom, I reluctantly agreed to swap rooms.

It was decided that we should adjourn to the Duck and Drake to carry out the battle of the names. It wasn’t far away, just up the lane, so we thought it best to walk. It was cold outside, very cold. Everything around had a coating of glistening white frost. It was such a relief to push open the creaking door of the pub to be greeted by a rush of warm air and the welcoming smell of beer!

We sank a round of drinks before getting down to the task in hand. I went to the bar to get another round and whilst I was doing so, Rosey went off to the loo. I took the drinks to the table and we waited for Rosey to return. On her way back she passed the bar just as the landlord was filling a glass from a bottle of chardonnay. Rosey called out a thank you, plucked the glass from the bar and took her place with us at our table. Just as she realised that she now had two glasses of wine in front of her, her eye was drawn to the bar where an elderly lay was asking the landlord where her glass of chardonnay had gone! I agreed to get the lady a replacement drink, then we got down to business. Charlie lost the toss and was duly renamed Chas, and Charley hung on to the name she loved!

After a few rounds we left the pub for our freezing walk back. Rosey spotted what she thought was an elaborate dog kennel in the pub garden and decided she wanted a closer look. We slowed down to allow her to investigate the little wooden building and she ran across the grass. Suddenly there was a splash, and there was Rosey up to knees in water with a couple of ducks paddling around her quacking loudly. It was an easy mistake to have made. It was dark and the pond was covered in green algae which made it look like grass. She looked back at us, giggled, and told us that it was not a kennel but a duck house!

We set off again, Rosey’s shoes squelching, and our breath white in winter air. As we were passing the churchyard, Rosey decided she needed a pee and could wait until we got back to the cottage. I pointed out that we were only a minute or so away, but she wouldn't wait; she just stood there with her legs crossed bobbing up and down. Better to be be safe than sorry she said.  She stumbled through the gate and headed for the nearest gravestone to allow herself some privacy. Chas laughingly called out that last time he’d walked past the church he’d seen a ghost wandering between the graves.  Rosey laughed and told him not to try and frighten her. A second later she screamed. Charley went rushing into the churchyard to find out what had happened – she thought Rosey had probably sat on a thistle or something.

She found Rosy, still squatting, chuckling to herself. It seems she’d just started relieving herself when she thought she saw a ghost out of the corner of her eye. She’d looked over her shoulder and realized it was steam!

The rest of the weekend was fun but uneventful. We left Chas( nee Charlie) and Charley (still Charley), and headed off back home to Eastbourne. I was determined not to tease her about her sighting in the churchyard; I thought I’d save it for when a bunch of us were together! I made do with a joke. I asked her what ghosts have for dinner. She gave me a funny look as if to say don’t be stupid, ghosts don’t eat. Then she sighed, and asked me what ghosts have for dinner. I told her ghoul-ash! She didn’t laugh.

Are we there yet?

Written for the Carry On Tuesday prompt ‘Are we there yet?’ with a polite nod to Sunday Scribblings ‘Eternity’ and Writers Island ‘Clarity’ 
 

‘Are we there yet?’ said a sad little voice in the back seat. ‘Are we there yet?’

He was driving fast, too fast. On a night like tonight he should be warm and cosy, curled up on his sofa, whisky in hand in front of a glowing log fire.

‘Are we there yet?’ called a plaintive little voice from the back.

It was pitch black. His cars headlights aimed a pair of brilliant silver blades into the gloom. Its tyres protested as he swerved this way and that on the rundown road that twisted and turned in the darkness ahead.

‘Are we there yet?’ cried the melancholy voice in his ear.

His eyes were bombarded by dazzling crystal raindrops which peppered the windshield; his ears assaulted by the staccato rattling of water splattering on glass. Sudden and unexpected gusts of howling wind hurtled the car to the left then right as he fought with the leather clad wheel to keep it on the road.

‘Are we there yet? Are we there yet?’

As he roared through a cathedral of bowing trees, a bird – an owl or maybe a wood pigeon flashed in front of him, flailing its wings of white brown and grey feathers just inches away. In a reflex action he momentarily touched the brake and the car slithered and jerked throwing his head against the window. For a moment everything around him became a blur. He opened his eyes wide and thanked the God he’d never known, for keeping him on the road.

‘Are we there yet? whimpered the little voice. ‘Are we there yet?’

The journey was taking an eternity. Every few minutes he passed a clearing which appeared to be the same clearing he’d passed a few moments earlier. At regular intervals his front right hand wheel thumped through a pothole sending a wave of water high into the sky. Time after time a bird fluttered within inches of his windshield causing him to touch the brake, swerve and thump his head on the window.

Suddenly everything began to come into sharp focus. As he hurtled along the tree lined road, things which were moments before a blur, he now saw with perfect clarity; the bark on the tree trunks, the swaying hedgerows and every blade of grass on the verge.

‘Are we there yet?’ whined the voice behind.

His mind cleared. Where was he? Where was he going? What was happening?

‘Are we there yet?’

He’d never had children. He’d never carried kids in the back of the car. There was no one but him in the car! He stood on the brake pedal and the car skidded to a shuddering halt. He spun round and found himself gazing into an empty seat. There was no one there. But he was sure he’d heard a voice.

He began to shake. Something was happening to him. He was imagining things. Surely he was imagining a sad little voice in the dark. He was imagining the bird and the pothole and the reappearing clearing. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know where he was going and he had no idea what was happening.

The rain had stopped and a shaft of moonlight illuminated the road ahead. He fumbled with the satnav and punched in his address. All he wanted now was his cosy sofa, a glass of scotch and his crackling log fire. He started the engine and set off towards home.

He punched on the radio and the soothing sound of a Beethoven sonata wafted around and he began to relax. Right now all that mattered was going home. Once there he felt sure everything would become clear, everything would fit into place.

A smile broke across his face and he began to hum along with the music. As he turned a corner he saw the familiar sight of the Dog and Duck pub. Suddenly he felt things were returning to normal. He took a left turn down the winding country lane which led to his cottage, passed the crooked red post-box and the ancient stone horse trough. Almost home. Nearly there.

 ‘ARE WE THERE YET?’ screeched a voice from behind him. ‘ARE WE THERE YET?’ it screamed. The lights went out. Darkness. Pitch darkness. He felt a clammy and cold hand stroke his throat and he was frozen with fear. Then the hand tightened and tightened and tightened.

There was bang on the floor beside him. It bought him to his senses with a start. He felt dizzy, everything was swimming. The pictures on the walls seemed to float past, the flames in the log fire danced a merry dance and his whisky glass was spinning around at his feet. But surely he was in his car. What was happening? Was the whole thing a dream? Was it a nightmare? He rubbed his temples with his thumbs.

For several minutes he sat motionless trying to make sense of everything that had happened, if indeed it had happened. Then he eased himself to his feet, threw a log on the fire and picked up the glass. As he poured himself a refill he noticed his hands were trembling. He slumped back on the sofa and took a large swig of scotch. The only sound was the hissing and gentle spitting of the fire. His eyes drifted closed.

‘Are we there yet?’ whispered a voice in his ear. ‘ARE WE THERE YET?’ it yelled

It's simply not fair

I have a niece. Actually I have more than one niece, but the one I’m thinking about right now is young, full of life and is never seen without the world’s biggest smile on her face.

She’s a wonderful partner, and mother to three lovely little daughters. And she's the perfect daughter to my brother and his wife. If you were to meet her now, you’d never know that she is suffering one of life’s cruelest afflictions. It’s simply not fair that my niece has breast cancer.

I was scanning Facebook a few minutes ago and I came across a message she left earlier today. I loved it and I thought I’d share it with you. This is what she wrote;

There are the normal ( . )( . ), the silicone ( + )( + )and the perfect (o)(o). Some are cold (^)(^) and some belong to grandmothers \./\./ and let’s not forget the very large (o Y o), the very small (.)(.) and the asymmetrical (•)(.) We love them all. Say ┌П┐(◉_◉)┌П┐ to Breast Cancer

All my own work!

Smile - it's blue Monday!

I've just opened my curtains. Only a little because I don’t really want to see outside. Its grey out there, very grey and its raining. Not heavy exciting rain, not light showery rain, but a steady pitta-patta which looks as if it’s here to stay. I’ve just turned off the news channel . There is so much bad news today. Fuel prices, interest rates, extreme weather – it goes on and on. The last thing I heard didn’t surprise me. It seems that today, the third Monday of January is officially the most depressing day of the year.It's blue Monday.

I’m off to work now. I’ve got a long drive on rain soaked roads to get there. When I get there everyone will be miserable, customers and staff. I don’t suppose I’ll do much business.

But let’s look on the bright side! In about fifteen hours time the most depressing day of the year will be behind us for another twelve months! Having said that I’ve just seen tomorrows weather forecast and its much the same as today’s. But at least it won’t be the third Monday of January! 

A little white lie and a lot of courage!

This won’t hurt’ said Rosey, one hand behind her back with her fingers crossed. Of course, she knew it was going to hurt. Hurt like crazy, but if her friend Jess wanted silky smooth legs, then suffering a couple of seconds of pain was a price well worth paying. And a white lie well worth telling! 

It had taken all the courage she could muster. Jess lay there with her eyes screwed closed, and her face contorted into a grisly mask in anticipation of the torture about to begin. Every muscle in her body was tense. Rosey grabbed hold of the wax sheet stuck to Jess’s leg and commenced the countdown. Three two one pull! Well, Jess screamed and shot her other leg outwards - straight into Roseys thigh!  Rosey went hurtling backwards and landed on her back on a glass coffee table which smashed into several pieces. In the process she somehow twisted her ankle. At least she thought she had just twisted it.

A couple of hours later Rosey was sitting in the casualty department of the local hospital waiting to have her broken ankle attended to. Jess was sitting alongside her pressing a packet of frozen peas to her bright red leg with quite a bit of its skin missing.

Rosey didn’t take to walking with crutches. She couldn’t work out how to co-ordinate her movements, it was like having four legs, two of which had a mind of their own. Before long she’d managed to get her hands on a wheelchair and Jess became her ‘pusher’, hobbling along  with one leg wrapped in a white bandage.

One day in a local mall she managed to loan an electric buggy. She’s never completely got the hang of driving her car, but left in charge of a claret coloured Shindler Lectro-Shopper she was a hazard to all around her! Her finest moment was when unbeknown to her, she managed to get its rear fender hooked onto a chrome rail of skirts in a clothes shop. Completely unaware of the drama unfolding behind her, she shot off down the centre isle  with half a dozen shop assistants trotting along in her wake picking up garments and attempting to attract her attention.

That was all a few weeks ago. Rosey is now getting along with aid of a single crutch, and apart from tripping up the odd passerby, she seems to be managing quite well. Jess has a little less bandaging on her damaged leg now and has gone back to shaving the other one.

A couple of days ago Rosey’s friend Julie managed to dislocate her shoulder. As I’m sure you recall, Rosey is trained in first aid, so she was delighted to be asked to assist her poor friend. Firstly Jess stood behind Rosey to help her stand without her crutch, then Rosey stood behind Julie and arranged her arms over Julies damaged shoulder. Everyone stood around watching, open mouthed. ‘This won’t hurt’ said Rosey. ‘One two three.......

Written for Writers Island and (Fiction)Friday

A Walk in the Park

The rising sun shines silver through the early morning mist. Droplets of dew glisten on blades of grass which quiver in the breath of a gentle spring breeze. A walk in the park. Just one man and his dog. So peaceful.

In the hunching houses beyond the hedgerows, alarms are waking folk from their slumbers.Soon the quiet will be shattered by the sound of cars spluttering into life. Children will shout their goodbyes as they pile into buses, and the drone of the city beyond will provide an endless soundtrack to the wearisome working day.

But for now, it’s peaceful, so very peaceful.

A mother duck proudly floats across the lake, as half a dozen baby brown birds paddle franticly in her wake in an effort to keep up. With a sudden hiss and splash, a fountain springs into life and in seconds it's crowned by the shimmering arc of a perfect rainbow.Around a corner behind the trees, a multicolour fence surrounds group of brightly coloured slides and seesaws enjoying the last minutes of peace and quiet before chattering mothers propel their shrieking offspring through the gate in their bag laden baby buggies. The swings move lazily back and forth awaiting their first passengers of the day.

His dog suddenly stops, as dogs do. As he waits for it to go about its business he looks around and wishes it could always be as peaceful as this.

As he rounds a bend he’s momentarily dazzled by a flash of light as the windows of the white and blue wooden pavilion reflect the rays of the beaming sun into his squinting eyes. A small price to pay for experiencing something few others will. Soon the chugging mower and the rumbling roller will be trundling back and forth getting the green ready for the start of the cricket season. Soon the crack of leather on willow will be music to the ears of the cricketing community as the men strut about bat and ball in hand, and the proud ladies make cucumber sandwiches, pour endless cups of tea and butter their home baked scones.

Right now though, peace and quiet prevail.

He turns and walks into the copse. Sunrays pierce the ground around him like golden spears as they shoot through the swaying branches overhead. A few minutes more and he’ll be home. He’ll hand the park back to his neighbours for another noise filled day.

A jarring thump. He shoots forward and stumbles to the ground. What’s happened? He makes out the sight of a heavy boot flying towards his face and senses someone frantically tearing at his pockets and dragging his watch from his wrist. The peace is shattered now. The silence is assaulted by the grunting and growling of his assailant. His dog drags itself from his grasp, and now the air is filled with deafening barking and the terrified whimper of the attacker who now finds himself under attack. Slowly everything becomes a blur and the sounds echo away into the distance.

Once again it’s peaceful. The only sound is the breathing of the faithful hound as he sits by his master, licking his face, willing him to recover..
Alone in the park. Just one man and his dog. So peaceful.

Written for the Sunday Scribblings prompt 'A Walk in the Park'

Rosey's rowing boat!

This weeks prompts at Writers Island and Sunday Scribblings are Embark and Progress respectively!

Did I tell you about my friend Rosey’s boat? Well, her parents have a river running past the bottom of their garden. Actually, river is a bit of an exaggeration; it’s more like a fast flowing wide stream if you know what I mean. For years there was a little wooden rowing boat on the bank. Blue and white it was. In fact Rosey can’t remember a time when it wasn’t there but she’d never seen it afloat. Over the years grass had grown up all around it, and even a few plants had taken root inside. A few years ago a family of mice took up residence!

A couple of summers ago Rosey decided it would be fun to try and return it to the water. Her father assured her that the sad old boat was good for nothing but firewood, but undeterred she made it her holiday project.

She cut away the grass and flowers and found that the boat had been stood on bricks well off the ground, so that was good news. It looked pretty solid despite all those years of neglect. She picked herself a bunch of flowers from the plants growing inside before clearing it out and assessing how much work was to be required to get it sea worthy! The easiest way she thought, would be to plonk it in the water and see if its bottom was waterproof. After much huffing and puffing she managed to launch it into the stream. Immediately it decided to take off on its own leaving Rosey standing on the bank wondering what to do. Rather than aim straight ahead, the little boat bobbed up and down and turned broadside. This was fortunate because it straight away got caught by an overhanging branch which impeded its progress allowing Rosey time to rush the garden shed and grab a length of rope which she used to secure the craft to a stump.

On the face of it, it appeared that all that was required to bring the boat back to its former glory would be a couple of sheets of sandpaper, some paint and brushes. Little did she know! Just to make sure nothing further would be required she decided to step aboard and have a close inspection of the inside. Once aboard she stood for a moment or two with her arms spread and her knees buckled as she tried to balance. So far so good. Until that was, there was a loud crack and the heal of her shoe went straight through thedeck! She stood there for a moment wondering if it would have been more sensible to have worn flat shoes! It was when water began to swirl around her feet she thought it prudent to head for the shore and abandon ship. Once on terra ferma she set about dragging the boat back up the bank where she turned it upside down to inspect the damage and formulate a plan of action.

As far as she could make out, one the planks which made up the ‘hulk’ as she called it had become detached from those on either side. The solution surely would be to nail it back in place, and armed with a hammer and a handful of six-inchers she set about restoring the errant plank to its normal position. Now Roseys is not stupid. She realized that she would need a little more waterproofing and a short search of the shed was successful in providing her with a can of silicon. This she squirted it all around the repair before deciding that she could never consider a breast implant after seeing what silicon looked and smelt like!

Rosey remembered seeing old films of bottles of champagne being smashed against the side of ships when they were launched. It seemed like a good idea (even though she saw it done in the movie the Titanic a few days before it went under). But there was no way she was going to waste a whole bottle on her little boat, so she gave herself a well deserved plastic cup of bubbly before banging the bottle on the boat sending a bit of wood from the front flying up into the sky.It didn't look as if was particularly important so she changed into sensible shoes and commenced the grand re-floating. Armed with a small spade (she couldn’t find an oar) she once again clambered aboard and started to hop, very carefully, up and down to see how successful her repair had been. It was then she screamed. In retrospect six inch nails had not been the best choice, two inch ones would have been far more suitable and wouldn’t have stuck up through the floor waiting to be trodden on. After a few choice expletives she decided on a mind-over-matter approach to her injury. She still had her hammer with her so she bashed them down in order to avoid future accidents. All appeared to be satisfactory so she sat on the seat and untied the rope. Time to embark on her journey downstream.


As I said the water did flow fairly rapidly, and not in a straight line. It sort of swirled at the same time and despite Rosey’s best efforts with her improvised oar, she remained at the mercy of the wild eddy beneath her. It was as the boat was slowly spinning around she sensed her feet were getting wet. A bit late now, but it would probably have been a better idea if she'd bent the nails over rather than hammering them down. Now, the only progress she was making was downwards, so she decided to leap out of the floundering craft and just hope that the water wasn't too deep. She needn’t have worried as she landed on the stream's bed with a jolt; the water not even reaching her knees.

As she stood there wondering what unpleasant wriggling water creatures were swimming around her legs she decided that the whole idea was not, on balance, a good one. She’d save her fun afloat for when she meets a wealthy young man with a yacht!

A few months later on Guy Fawkes Night,  Rosey stood with her parents watching a magnificent bonfire as fireworks hissed and crackled painting the sky with a palette of colour. And perched on top of the bonfire was the little blue and white rowing boat. Rosey’s Dad was right. It really did make very good firewood!

This weeks prompt at Carry On Tuesday is ready and waiting for you!